Amortentia
by slire
Summary: His son looks at him like he wants him to beg, apologize, to explain himself, just say something, anything... And Tom Riddle Senior turns away and says nothing at all.


**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter © JK Rowling

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**Amortentia**

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Tom Riddle (Senior—but he does not call himself that) walks through the rooms of his house, and so, remembers. Little less than a decade ago and he would have gagged on his own vomit by indulging these thoughts, these wretched memories. Now, they gave become ghosts. The place is stripped for personality, filled with materialistic things that meant something to him once. He cannot leave this place. It's all he has.

He walks through main hall from the door, first. He'd invited her in, here.

_This is where she kissed me for the first time,_ he thinks, eyeing a dusty cupboard. On it are photos of unsmiling Victorians. Impersonal. _I was so happy I thought I would burst with it. When Cecilia returned I became raw with resentment, viewing her as a threat. I remember the emotions. They were mine. They were not conjured. _That took him years to come to terms with.

From there, Tom passes into the living room. _We fucked in that,_ he thinks as his eyes trace over a dusty couch. _She sat on my lap and rode me. I remember it clearly now, yes. I was touching her face, constantly, as if she'd disappear from me any minute. _

He cannot go to counselling. Such is looked down upon, considering his gender and background. The rage and shame he felt has turned to ice, hollowing him out and leaving nothing but an empty man.

As he continues through the living room and into the kitchen, he looks upon another spot.

_Here I was on my knees in front of her. I was crying, I think. Said it was driving me insane—this love, so deep and dark. It was consuming me. _Tom bites his thumb until it bleeds, but he remains blasé. The woman had stood in front of him while he cried, watching his destruction with fondness. He does not give her a name. To him she has become "the woman", a monster without name. _I told her I was more afraid of losing her than I was of myself. I did both._ He was an arrogant and vain (still is, in some ways, but his identity is too grimed to express it), but this all seemed so petty in comparison to her.

It is first when he moves upstairs it becomes harder and harder to continue, even if he has walked here many times before. The furniture here is covered in thin white cloths, layered in dust. _We had our first fight, here, in this room. Whatever she gave me... Its effects were going away. I was screaming, clawing myself. I did not know who I was anymore. _The blood stains have been washed from the tree boards, but he can still imagine them.

Obsession is a lot like love. Tom realized this not long ago. Almost the same, but different in their outcome. Love falters and withers. Obsession stays with you like some hungry beast, only turning to ice, ready to be heated up any moment. Some part of him still longed for her—longed what she could give him, the feeling of wholeness, of completion. But that was based on a lie.

The bedroom is the worst place, though. He mostly sleeps downstairs. He imagines himself sitting on the bed, staring into space. The woman lies beside him, stoking his back, but he shivers when she touches her. _"What are you thinking about, darling?" _she'd asked. They'd just had sex. The memory of the sex repulses him.

He doesn't remember where the final disagreement took place, but he remembers standing in front of her, screaming his heart out. _"Get out get out get out get out—"_

_"Tom,"_ she'd screamed back, _"it's your baby!"_

He'd gone back to clawing himself. The scars are still there. He thought of the baby. The first thought was not that the woman did not have the correct blood, or the correct amount of money, or even that the baby was a witch's. His first thought was that the thing growing in her was a result of rape. Actual non consensual sex, and also a soul rape. His life was shattered. He could never go back to society with how he was now.

The woman had expected him to take her of her now that she was pregnant, and that she did not need to brew more love potion for him, but to him, the baby was something ugly. _Still is. I can not forgive it for what it is._

Tom sinks to his knees. He would cry, but he's already done it enough.

The days pass just like this one.

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One day his son turns up on his door.

"Hello, Father."

Tom Riddle Senior looks at his mirror reflection and knows there is no way he can deny his parentage. His arms slump down in a position of defeat. His son looks at him like he wants him to beg, apologize, to explain himself, _just say something,_ _anything_...

And Tom Riddle Senior turns away and says nothing at all.

The **_"Avada Kedavra!"_** that follows is a gift rather than a curse.


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